


lethe

by mortalitasi



Series: a crown of poppies [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Gen, General, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 18:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11674305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortalitasi/pseuds/mortalitasi
Summary: If he had not known her, it would all have been much easier.Solas and Nehn, a study.





	lethe

**Author's Note:**

> ok. hi. yes. i'm not dead. two important things you should know before reading--
> 
> a) my lavellan is literally a shounen protagonist. i am sorry for her thick brick head and her illogical optimism.  
> b) no, she doesn't love him back. not in That Way™, at least.  
> c) please tell me your favorite sentence from this fic.  
> d) this is not edited yet.
> 
> thank you. ♥

\--  
**i.**  
\--  
  
  
  
He waits for the soldiers in a dark room, away from the commotion.  
  
They boot the door open, carrying the survivor in—a bundle of armor and singed leather, smaller than any of the humans in the room. She is pale with fever, sweat beading on her brow, her auburn hair coming loose from its braids around her head. She has a pretty face, he supposes, even creased as it is with pain.  
  
Something cold coils in his gut at the sight of June’s brands on her temples, her cheeks, her lips. The markings are a dark brown, almost black in the gloom of the cell, mocking him. Through the Ages, _this_ is what has persisted. Not true memory. Not magic. Just pale shadows of warped stories, children playing at myths beyond their ken, fumbling in the dark, speaking in tattered tongues and squalling over scraps of a lie.  
  
They don’t much look like his people, the elves—' _elves_ ’—of this time. The hum of the Beyond that surrounds those magically gifted is mute around this woman, except for the Mark, the screaming beacon of her left hand, burning emerald through her veins and washing the planes of her countenance in unnatural light. Standing, he guesses, the top of her head would not reach his shoulder: the people of Arlathan prized their height, the many forms they could take, the colors of their spells and the music they could draw from the Fade. This girl is mundane. Static. Clay-made. They _all_ are.  
  
The soldiers have left—he didn’t even notice—and he reaches out to turn the survivor’s face better into his line of sight, feeling the heat of her skin with his fingertips. They are calling her the Herald. Of course they are—they don’t know any better. Faith can turn the most foolish of accidents into miracles. Lead to gold. Water to wine.  
  
She has a name. Nehn. _The word for joy_.  
  
He wonders how long she will be able to bear this before she breaks.  
  
  
  
\--  
**ii.**  
\--

She laughs twice as loudly as she talks, which is already very loud, and does not mind the temperatures of the Frostbacks.  
  
Color returns to her cheeks a day or two after she rises from her sickbed, dubbed different names by each peasant and scullery maid in Haven, and the guarded, sullen front he’d seen in the Temple falls away, piece by piece. She walks about the camp, stopping to look into everything, pulling any sorry soul she can find into conversation, asking questions, drinking ale (lots of ale), leaving prints in the snow and haunting the smithy.  
  
The cut of her arms is solid, carved from granite—warrior’s arms. She carries things, for the ambassador in gold, for the serving girl with the stutter at the tavern, even for Cassandra, who still cannot believe that the Herald _does not_ believe.  
  
Finally, his turn comes again, and he is surprised—neither pleasantly nor unpleasantly—by her determination. Their last engagement ended in brambles (“What’s your problem with the Dalish? Allergic to halla?”), but there is no trace of a storm in her expression. She greets him openly, and perhaps, because of it being unexpected, the conversation this time flows steady, so much that he forgets himself, admitting to his worries.  
  
“You came here to help, Solas,” she says, looking at him curiously. The green in her hazel eyes takes him back to the Graves. “I won’t let them use that against you—no matter our differences.”  
  
Suspicion. He draws back, raising a brow. “And how would you stop them?”  
  
She smiles, mischievous, encouraging, altogether confident. It digs sharp between his ribs. “However I had to,” she answers. She _means_ it.  
  
His breath comes back to him in a slow hiss. “Thank you,” he says, and for the first time since he awoke, it is not a lie.  
  
  
  
\--  
**iii.**  
\--

He is sitting in the middle of the forward camp when Cullen and Cassandra return, flanked by two scouts each, and the fatigue of the night behind them clouds him from the instant realization that it is the Herald in Cullen’s arms, limp and unconscious.  
  
Against his better judgment, concern bites at his throat. The Chantry people are swarming them soon enough, making space, leading Cullen to lay her to rest on a spare cot close to one of the many campfires dotted throughout the makeshift settlement. Mother Giselle hovers, taking over for the rest, while Cullen stands at the foot of the cot like an anxious hound and Cassandra resumes her pacing. Word spreads quickly—the Herald lives, come down the mountain guided by Andraste herself, and so on, and so forth—until the camp is buzzing with excited, exhausted tension.  
  
The healers erect a shaky, fabric-made barrier around the Herald’s cot, divesting her of her armor, drying her body, brushing her hair, setting the shoulder sitting awkwardly out of place, salving wounds, bandaging what must be covered. He can feel the aggravated flicker of the Anchor even at this distance, winking in and out of his awareness like a candle in the wind, so it does not perturb him when a red-faced girl in a Chantry tunic asks him to come attend to the Herald.  
  
Behind the relative privacy of the screen, he can almost forget he isn’t alone.  
  
Here they are again. Her, the patient; he, the attendant. It is different, but the same. He knows her now, just a little, can see the details that make her herself all over: the scar lancing through her brow and over her eyelid, the suspicion of smile-lines, the divots in her cheeks where the dimples show if she grins, the blizzard of freckles present wherever there is skin, more pronounced on the nose and shoulders and arms, where she sees more sun than anywhere else. She is Nehn, not a nameless straggler. Names are not for objects—they are for people. And people are _real_.  
  
He takes her Marked hand in his, turning it palm-up, brushing his thumb over the epicenter of the magic pulsating there. It shivers at his touch, glimmering, the only thing in perhaps this entire world that can recognize him for what he truly is. Would she treat him as she does, if she knew?  
  
A pointless question, designed for suffering. She won’t know. None of them will, not until it is far too late.  
  
He quietens the Mark, best as he can, swollen as it is with new power. It is progressing at a rate he had not perceived possible—faster than his initial estimation, but slower than the worst he could imagine. She carries it well, though the incompatibility must cause her great pain at times. Great pain, and sickness. It is difficult to reconcile the image of her with that. Nehn, always laughing, quietly enduring.  
  
Mother Giselle comes back just as he finishes his treatment, catches him tucking her arm in at her side and smoothing the hair from her face.  
  
“I have done what I can,” he tells her, shouldering his pouch. “I’ve cast an enchantment that will bring her temperature back to normal gradually—she should waken within the hour, all being well, considering she is not concussed.”  
  
“It is appreciated,” Mother Giselle says. She watches him leave.  
  
He does not look back.  
  
  
  
\--  
**iv.**  
\--

They walk through the memory of Haven, passing by the abandoned training grounds and empty tents, the unmanned smithy and the unoccupied stables.  
  
He led her here, after he’d found her wandering at the edge of his dreams. It’s the Anchor that gives her this power, most likely. She is as furthest as one can be from being a mage, all physical strength and immovable will. She is almost too much for the Fade, where the imagination trumps any objective reality, and the ground shifts at every spirit and dreamer’s wish. Still, she keeps pace beside him, head canted up to the sky, large eyes wide, absolutely unaware of how much her very existence is incongruous with everything around her. Perhaps that’s part of her charm.  
  
“It’s so quiet,” she sighs, her breath misting white, pulled away by the breeze. The perpetual late morning here casts a golden light on her, turning her hair the color of burnished copper, glinting on her gauntlets. She is lightly-armored, even in the refuge of her mind. The soft clothes and enchanted fabrics of Arlathan would be alien to her—woven wind and tempered quicksilver, nothing like the steel and everite she works at the forge.  
  
“Silence can be valuable,” he says, shortly, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips.  
  
She chuckles. “Are you implying something?”  
  
“Me?” he asks softly. “I would not.”  
  
Now she lets loose a peal of her real laughter. It would scare birds away, had there been any in the trees of this ghostly recollection come to life. “And I’m a virginal Chantry maid,” she returns, but there is no spite to her tone. She stretches her arms above her head, and the hem of her tunic rides up enough that he can see the trailing path of the vallaslin on her hips. He moves his gaze upward, to the imitation of the Breach swirling in the heavens.  
  
“I had planned to flee, you know,” Solas admits. She stills, turning to him. “I was frustrated—frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had all been driven away by the Breach.” It feels good, he thinks absently, to say this to another. “Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me.”  
  
“Where to, may I ask?” she says, totally unfazed. “I suspect the Breach wouldn’t have adhered to Imperial travel laws.”  
  
“Somewhere far away, I suppose. A place where I could research how to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.”  
  
Nehn shakes her head. “Very specific. Well done.”  
  
He coughs. “I never said it was a _good_ plan.”  
  
“Nice to know even you have off days,” she remarks. He scoffs.  
  
“I tried and failed to seal the rifts, one more time,” he continues. “No ordinary magic would affect them. I’d done everything I could think of—every test, every spell. Nothing worked. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flight, and then…” He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, conscious of her attention. “You sealed it with just a gesture. And right there—I felt the whole world change.”  
  
“‘Felt the whole world change?’” she quotes, incredulous, though there’s hesitant awe in her voice. She isn’t convinced, a stranger to her own worth. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?”  
  
He reels back. He’s said too much—revealed too much. “It’s a figure of speech,” he says, hoping the words will hide the piece of himself he’s just laid bare.  
  
She lets out a long exhale, wiping at a cheek with one of her hands. “I’m aware,” she tells him, pausing abruptly. There’s a caution about her that wasn’t present before. “You… actually mean that?”  
  
Safer territory. He relaxes, just a bit. “I would not have said it if I didn’t.”  
  
The confirmation does something to her—he doesn’t know what. She directs her gaze to the ground, scuffing at the snow with the toe of one boot. It takes near half a minute for the body language to make sense, as he’s not seen it on her before—she is _bashful_ , digging fingers through her hair, her freckled cheeks blushing red. “ _Ma serannas_ ,” she says when she lifts her head again, eyes shining. “You’re kinder than you think, Solas.”  
  
The lump in his throat is back. “Ah, well—that’s not a discussion for this place, should you wish to continue it.”  
  
She blinks at him. “What do you mean?”  
  
He smiles, and it is wry, because they’ve spent this short, precious time where he is strongest; where she and the rest are the outsiders, not the other way around. “Where do you think we were?”  
  
Others realizing what he’s already known has always been a favorite occurrence of his, and he finds the years have not dulled the pleasure in the least. Nehn wheels around, taking in the horizon of Haven, the still trees, the gently-falling snow. “This isn’t real…”  
  
“That is a matter of debate,” he says smartly. “Probably best discussed after you _wake up_.”  
  
The endearing expression of shock she wears is just a welcome bonus.  
  
  
  
\--  
**v.**  
\--  
  
  
  
  
He cannot tell when she is coming around to the rotunda with any sort of consistency, and it is frustrating.  
  
Somedays, he is well-prepared for her approach; Nehn can be heard courtyards away, stomping and talking, jumping over railings (he wishes he were joking), signalling her presence to anyone with half a brain within a radius of twenty leagues. Others, he has no idea she’s getting closer until she is quite literally standing an arm’s length away from him, and by then it is too late to dissuade her from whatever she’s set her mind on.  
  
Today is one of those days. The _other_ ones.  
  
“Solas!”  
  
The bright burst of her voice nearly causes him to lose his grip on the half-empty jars of fresco pigment he’s holding. They’re already drying—they’ll be devilishly hard to rinse if they completely crust over, is what’s on his mind, and he will _not_ be stopped—and suddenly there are hands around his wrists. He’s rolled his sleeves up, as he always does when he’s working on a new part of the fresco, and the touch of her skin on his sends a buzz up his arms.  
  
“ _Lethallan_ ,” he greets.  
  
“Hey,” she says, looking up at him. She’s let most of her hair down today, allowing it to tumble over her shoulders and back—it ends just short of her hips, thick and rippling, and not for the first time, he asks himself how she can tolerate carrying its weight about. “You need a break.”  
  
Solas shuts his eyes for a moment, gathering his bearings. “Not this again. I—”  
  
“ _You_ have been working for eight hours, total, with no rest except for some sips of water and a poor excuse for food,” she interjects, her grip tightening. The calluses on her palms chafe on his wrists, creating an agreeable friction. “I would’ve done this earlier, but it would have ruined your work. But you’re done, so I figured it’d be fine.”  
  
He starts, though he should be better at disguising his surprise by now. She has a way of drawing it out of him. He can’t help himself. “How did you know?”  
  
She grins at him, sharp teeth on dark lips. “I’m not _completely_ oblivious. The paints you use are highly diluted and dry relatively fast on their own—it’s probably worse with the open doors in here. You’re so methodical and careful, which you are by nature, but you’ve finished everything you’ve painted in a single go—which makes me assume you’ve only got one shot when you’re filling in the color. You’d have to take it down and try again if it dried prematurely in that weird carving stage and the plaster set.” Her countenance takes on a smug aspect, and her grin grows wider. “Am I right?”  
  
He hasn’t explained the process to her in full—not to anyone, really, except for the trifling talks he’s had with the archivist that understands the basics of his technique, a man from Kirkwall with a keen eye for color and shape. “Your skills of deduction are not wanting,” he says, and it makes her kick out one bare foot in victory.  
  
“Ha! I win.”  
  
He almost laughs. “I wasn’t aware this was a competition.”  
  
“Says perhaps _the_ most competitive person I know,” she replies, waggling her brows at him. It’s both terrifying and welcome how easily she can read him. “Come on. Put the pots away and let’s get something to eat. And drink. It’ll all be here when you get back. You’ve been standing for a thousand years.”  
  
“Perhaps not _quite_ that long,” he says as she tugs him over to the desk. He makes no move to release his jars.  
  
“Solas,” she repeats, more firmly.  
  
“ _Lethallan_.”  
  
She stares at him, unblinking, until he sighs and caves. “Alright. An hour at most. I must return to put everything in its place.”  
  
“Okay, Revered Mother,” she says, laughing under her breath. “I’ll make sure to escort you home before curfew.”  
  
“Inquisitor…”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“If you would be so kind as you release me, we can be on our way.”  
  
“No can do,” Nehn responds, but relinquishes one hand… to clamp onto his bicep with the other. She observes him as he sets the jars on his paper-strewn desk. “You might run away.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Really. Now, let’s go.”  
  
But he still doesn’t regret saying yes.  
  
  
  
\--  
**vi.**  
\--

He learns that she has a sweet voice one day while sitting on the ramparts overlooking the tavern, talking to Cole.  
  
Summer is coming swiftly to Skyhold—the lush verdant greens of the garden are fairly exploding from their pots, medicinal remedies and ornamental flowers, from crystal grace to spindleweed alike. The air is warmer now, as warm as it can be at such an elevation, and in the evening the scent of nightflower floods the courtyard where the soldiers train as nobles watch.  
  
He knows Maryden’s voice well: it carries wonderfully across the empty space outside the Herald’s Rest, husky and honey-toned, an offset to the keen counterpoint of her lute. Sometimes the men will join her in a drunken sing-along, mangling notes with laughter as much as an absence of musical talent, but what he hears now is different. Recognizable in speech, but not melody. Lilting. Soothing. The mellow roll of elvhen folk turns his disbelief to nostalgia, and that into another, quieter feeling, one for which there is no word in Common. There is only one person in Skyhold that could be.  
  
Cole listens to the music on the wind, head tilted, ice-blue eyes alert under the fringe of his flaxen hair. “What do the words mean?”  
  
“It’s about the moon,” Solas says, after he’s caught a little more of the verse. “And the stars. And the people who can never reach them.”  
  
“Sad,” Cole mumbles, leaning back into the stone of the ramparts and crossing his arms. He’s replete with mannerisms like this now, signs of his growing humanity and permanence. He, too, is becoming static.  
  
Solas tries to smile. “Much about the Elvhen is.”  
  
A pause stretches on between them, bridged by the Inquisitor’s singing, lyrical and lovely. The ballad ends after another turn and a new one starts; Cole looks to the tavern as a duet of voices rises. “You should talk about it,” he suggests, and Solas stiffens. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”  
  
There is a heavy weight in his heart, growing each day. “Some things are better left unsaid,” Solas says.  
  
“I wish I could help,” Cole murmurs.  
  
Solas shakes his head. “What matters is that you thought to. It’s alright.”  
  
The music continues. His blood burns. He will be fine, someday.  
  
  
  
\--  
**vii.**  
\--

Cities and civilizations have come and gone in his lifetime, but intrigue unfailingly remains.  
  
The inside of Halamshiral is all glass and marble, gilded statues and hunting trophies, exquisite furniture and silent servants. Conversation is audible, but not comprehensible, as it should be—just whispers and murmurs, things that could be the suspicion of praise or a river of venom. It shouldn’t thrill him so, to stand in a place where power is so potent, but it _does_ , watching the proceedings from the gloom, exulting in the idea that none of them have any idea what he could do, what he knows—where he is from, and what that means.  
  
Most of the members of the Inquisition present wear no masks, as if the Orlesians needed any help telling them apart from the crowd in the first place. He has been wearing his own long before the Inquisitor was called upon to attend—the best lies are woven from the yarn of truth. The difficulty with them is stopping yourself from believing, as well.  
  
Solas is too far to catch anything but the Lord Steward’s monotone voice as he makes the announcements for the court, and frankly, the happenings of the little people who think they’re subtle are far more interesting than listening to Celene regurgitate scripted adulations to people she is already prepared to act against. He lingers in the hallways, inconspicuous in his neat finery, hands behind his back, completely ignored. For all intents and purposes, he is invisible—a quality dangerous as any spell.  
  
The nobles standing around ripple to the sides, breaking into smaller groups as someone wedges their way between them. He sees her when a corridor opens up amidst the sea of masks, comfortable in her stride like she isn’t miles from Skyhold, miles from any place where people care to pretend someone like her is welcome.  
  
“There you are,” she says, stepping up to him. She is radiant tonight, as Madame Vivienne had planned, in a streamlined combination of what looks like repurposed ceremonial Dalish armor and a dress. He has no doubt that it would hold up in a real fight—the Inquisitor likes to always be prepared, even if she looks like a creature cut from a Fade dream while doing it.  
  
“Here I am,” he affirms. She beams at him, dimples showing. “Is there something you needed?”  
  
“Just doing my rounds, checking in on everyone,” Nehn says, turning so they’re standing side-to-side, looking out at the long, hazily-lit hall together. “You seem to be doing well—not in any danger of stepping on anyone’s neck, I hope?”  
  
“Not currently,” he says, eyes drawn to the clean outline of her profile. The braids atop her head are a mass of auburn and gold, their ends clasped in little glittering cuffs, a mixture of feminine and warlike. Lower, the neckline of her battle-tunic is exposing shapely shoulders, surrounded by a billow of thinly-hammered stormheart. “Though I doubt that will change.”  
  
She nods, her stare following a group of clustered nobles in cumbersome swan masks shuffling by. She speaks when they round the corner. “I can always count on you for amiable self-control.”  
  
Ah, if she had even an inkling…  
  
A rush of laughter comes from one of the rooms in the hall—jolly, no doubt, with the help of the generous portions of alcohol served at every turn. It does nothing for him. The last time he’d been affected by any drink is beyond a distant memory, a vague dissatisfaction with the sensation of not possessing the full extent of his faculties. He’d been young, then. Young and so very different.  
  
“You like it here, don’t you?”  
  
He forgets himself, turning to face her. “Yes. I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events. It is… invigorating.”  
  
She scoops up a glass from the tray of a passing servant, nodding her thanks. “Eloquent as ever,” she says into the flute, sipping at the wine at a pace that is odd for her. She notices the questioning rise of his brow and smiles sheepishly. “Viv strongly prohibited—what did she call it? Oh. ‘ _Glugging_.’”  
  
He stifles a snort. “I see.”  
  
Nehn drags her tongue over the full curve of her lips, expression thoughtful. “Last I saw, she’s off talking to Monsieur Pamplemoose of Dickinsford from the Vale of Beerbelly or something or other, and she didn’t even look bored. It’s amazing, really.”  
  
A chuckle escapes him at that. “It takes practice.”  
  
“Things are much simpler back home. I just punched people I didn’t like.”  
  
The image of her knocking Gaspard over with a fist comes to mind. “You are doing remarkably well, regardless,” he says, not dishonestly. She carries herself with a grace he did not really expect from her.  
  
“Why, thank you,” she says in return. “I am, luckily, an _excellent_ bullshitter, so those three months of torture were not in vain.”  
  
He can hardly forget the days she walked around with books stacked on her head, or was condemned to reading and memorizing passages of etiquette and conduct from Vivienne’s own selection of manuals. It had been… an experience. “Your posture _has_ improved,” he observes.  
  
“I don’t think I’ll ever slouch again,” she mutters, setting her empty glass on a stand beside them and rolling her neck. “And there’s still so much to do…”  
  
“As there always is,” he’s saying, when she sets a hand on his arm and gooseflesh prickles at the back of his neck. She stands on her tiptoes, and for a single, absurd moment, it seems perfectly plausible that she’s going to lean in closer; but she has gotten near to speak quietly into his ear, not anything else, though he is at close enough a distance to pick up the notes in the perfumed oil she’s wearing—rosemary, cloves, citrus. Warmth edged out by crisp spice.  
  
Her nails rasp at the fabric of his sleeve. “If you see anything warranting suspicion, go straight to Leliana. Don’t try to play lone wolf mastermind, alright?”  
  
He has to marvel at her choice of words. Serendipity is a peculiar force. “Of course, Inquisitor,” he says, looking down at her face—sparingly painted, this evening, her catlike eyes outlined in dark green kohl, mouth stained scarlet. Appealing.  
  
“Good man,” she praises, her grasp strengthening for a moment in a squeeze of approval before she backs down. He wants to hold her. “See you in a bit.”  
  
She slips out of reach, walking away; and he lets her go.  
  
  
  
\--  
**viii.**  
\--

He offers her knowledge, on a day when the skies are clear and the others are asleep in their tents. They watch the sun rise over the horizon of the Exalted Plains from the shelter of their cavern camp.  
  
“A noble would mark his slaves,” he says, watching her expression for any sign of anguish. “To honor the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot.” As they did so many other things, but this is the one he is willing to shed light on—for her. “In my travels of the Fade, I’ve learned this to be true.” Another pause. “I didn’t tell you this to hurt you.”  
  
She laughs, startling him. “Do I look hurt?” she asks, from her seat against the cave wall. “I’m not. But I do have a question for you.” He tilts his head at her, prompting her to go on. “Can you see ancient Arlathan anywhere around you?”  
  
“No,” he answers—perhaps more quickly and sourly than he intends, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she did, remark on it.  
  
“The past is real,” Nehn says. “We can’t change it. What the vallaslin mean to me, what I did to earn them—that is real, as well. If I say they honor my efforts and talents, they do. A tradition is as strong as the people enforcing it, isn’t it? We aren’t marking others in slavery. Haven’t been, for hundreds of years, now. Who’s to say they’re even the same thing?”  
  
“Can intent change history?” he replies, steepling his fingers. They’ve gone cold. “All the blood behind us?”  
  
Her gaze softens. “It doesn’t have to. It only needs to change the future.”  
  
He exhales, his breath ruffling the loose neckline of his tunic. There is a tightness in his chest, like something there is desperately close to bursting. “I suppose I should not offer to remove them. I know the spell.”  
  
She waggles her brows at him. “What do _you_ think?”  
  
“Very well,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. “Perhaps it was foolish to ask.”  
  
“Solas?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
She leans her head back against the rock, closing her eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”  
  
It takes hours for the light, dizzy excitement of seeing into her mind to fade.  
  
  
  
\--  
**ix.**  
\--

The red templars fall before her like wheat before a scythe.  
  
She’d carried the remains of the Sulevin Blade to Dagna herself, cradling them in a square of canvas, her entire body taut with anticipation. They’d pored over schematics and discussed forgery and the attributes of suitable substitution metals for hours, until even Harritt could not help himself and intruded upon the conversation: it’d been a labor of a few sleepless days, putting it back together as best they could, and the marvel that had emerged was a weapon that hardly left the Inquisitor’s side.  
  
It sings when it cuts through the air.  
  
They trample through the jade waters of the Arbor Wilds—birds the color of sunset fly overhead, and the foliage and humidity is so thick it is sometimes difficult to breathe. Sweat gleams on everyone’s brow, all except the immaculate human apostate, whose gold-yellow eyes are always fixed on the path ahead. The greed radiating from her makes him sick. Another plunderer, come to scoop what little treasure is left away for themselves.  
  
“I’m melting,” Pavus says—helpful, really—as Nehn beheads the last templar. She splashes onward, a trail of blood following her like a crimson ribbon in the water.  
  
“I can dunk you in, if you’d like,” Nehn offers, canting her head toward the south, where the brook leads into a deep, glassy lake.  
  
“We haven’t all day,” Morrigan snaps. She overtakes the Inquisitor quickly. “We must stay ahead of this overblown fool’s troops.”  
  
“You heard the lady,” Nehn says. “Chop-chop.”  
  
Pavus makes a disgruntled noise and follows, wringing moisture from the hem of his robes.  
  
The water is not a problem later, when the lyrium flames of the fallen dragon sear the dampness out of the air and they all lie exhausted against the shut temple door, steam rising from their clothes and armor.  
  
“May the Maker shit on that thing,” Varric gasps, leaning on Bianca for support.  
  
Nehn wipes the perspiration from her temple with the back of a wrist, a low breath whistling out between her teeth. “Alright, kids. Onward.”  
  
The puzzles and mosaics of the place are not unfamiliar to him. It almost hurts to see the temple as well-preserved as it is, considering the situation and the Ages that have passed; everywhere he looks there are familiar symbols and shapes, paths he’s taken in another life. If he stands still, he can picture this sanctuary as it once was, when the fountains overflowed and the hooded pilgrims walked the twisting, grated footways in supplication. Tall mages in white robes, hushed hymns, the haze of incense—living, breathing mastery. The _truth_.  
  
The shadows of what happened here linger yet, under the overgrowing blossoming vines. In his mind’s eye he can see the ruin of what it was, days after the betrayal, when pillagers’ fire rose in the courtyards and blackened the marbled walls and floors; the abandoned, dishonored corpses of the pilgrims and the Sentinels, the defaced mosaics, the shattered censers. The glass had cut into his feet as he’d walked the entry path to the collapsed temple gates, and he’d wept, furious, the anger and vengefulness turning his heart to stone.  
  
It is so quiet now—there’s nothing much else to hear but the cries of the Arbor birds, the wind in the leaves. Even the cacophony that accompanies the templars has ceased. The Inquisitor is approaching a stone tablet with the witch at her side, green shadows alive across her face and arms. A present that should not be walking into the past it will not know, not ever.  
  
She is so far from what they once were. She should be a fixture. Stagnant. Brittle.  
  
But she is _real_.  
  
  
  
\--  
**x.**  
\--

He feels the orb shatter.  
  
It isn’t a clean break. The power trapped behind the barrier of the focus shudders, released, a raging fire locked behind a splintering door—and then it is vanished, robbing him of his breath and staggering him. A gaping wound yawns in the net of his existence now, where once there was a slow stream of familiar magic, coming back to him across the link he and the focus had shared.  
  
“No,” he says, as though that will make the sad, cold remains of his most precious gift come back together instead of lying useless in his hands. He runs his thumbs over the jagged edges, the whorls of the outside. Another bereavement. What does he have left? What does he have left that he can _touch_?  
  
“Solas?”  
  
Not her. Not now. He bows his head, swallowing down the heat in his throat.  
  
“The orb,” is all he can manage, voice hoarse.  
  
The dusty, crumbled remains of the temple crackle under the soles of her leggings as she comes to crouch by him. Her hair is wild, leaving its bindings, as though she’s stood in a great gale of wind, and an open cut on her forehead is trickling blood, but her eyes are focused on him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says in a near-whisper. “I know you wanted to save it.”  
  
He shuts his eyes, teeth gritted. “It was not supposed to happen this way.”  
  
“Is there no way we can repair it?” she asks gently.  
  
“That would not recover what has been lost,” he says, letting go of the half he’s holding, trying to quell the poisonous disappointment, hating himself for his active mind. It is telling him what comes next—what must be done, who he must go to—and he wishes for once it would silence itself, allow him some peace, that the lurch for survival would stop.  
  
“There’s more, isn’t there?” Nehn murmurs. She watches him for a moment, taking in the curl of his fists and the set of his face. “You’re leaving.”  
  
He glances at her—he despises and cherishes her perception. Curses it for making conversation so dangerously easy. Is relieved by it. Reviles it. “No matter what comes,” he starts, each word a burr on his tongue, “I want you to know you shall always have my respect.”  
  
He stands, and she follows.  
  
She doesn’t look away. The solemn earnestness of her expression will stay with him in the days ahead of him. “You don’t have to grieve alone. Remember?”  
  
He does. He remembers that she waited, while he soothed the agony of having Wisdom torn from him—and that she believed he would return, because she considered Skyhold his home as much as she did hers. He remembers that she didn’t ask why he left, and that there was no rancor between them, that she welcomed him back simply, like he’d been gone an hour instead of days. He remembers her advice, strangely discerning for one so young, and the touch of her hand on his shoulder.  
  
Cassandra’s voice rises above the gusting breeze whistling over the temple rubble, high and clear as a war horn.  
  
“ _Inquisitor_! Are you alive?”  
  
Nehn doesn’t move.  
  
“They are calling you,” he says, and at hearing Cassandra’s summons again, she turns around.  
  
When she looks back, he is gone.  
  
  
  
\--  
**xi.**  
\--

She stumbles into the clearing in the Viddasala’s wake, and he only has time for a brief glimpse at her spent expression before the Anchor brings her to her knees.  
  
The Inquisitor is not an overly proud woman, not prone to vanity or concealing emotion, but pain hasn’t ever been a hindrance for her. She takes wounds that would fell anyone twice her size with no complaint, and grinds through the mess of battle with a vigor that suits a reaver well; she is no stranger to suffering, or to harnessing it, and the Mark has all but destroyed her. To see her so reduced turns his stomach.  
  
She wheezes in audible relief when he cuts the Anchor’s surplus of magic short. Black smoke rises from her destroyed gauntlet, but the green light has disappeared, leaving behind an awful, coal-dark husk, its fingers motionless. It is too late to save. She grasps at the wrist of her left with her right, and slowly comes to her feet, her breath coming in deep rasps. The two years between them haven’t changed her much—he can tell it is so, even with the pall of death that surrounds her. She is still beautiful, and stubborn, and there are tears slipping down her cheeks. It is the first time he has seen her weep.  
  
“That should give us more time,” he says, and she stares, keeping silent while the long-grass billows around them and the water ripples. “I suspect you have questions.”  
  
The twilight of the elven ruins glints off her breastplate, emblazoned with the open eye of the Inquisition. “ _Dareth shiral,_ Fen’harel.”  
  
He should not be surprised. Most of him isn’t. She probably realized it before anyone else. “Well done,” he says, but the praise is ash in his mouth. “I was Solas first. Fen’harel… came later. An insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends—and fear in my enemies. Not unlike _Inquisitor_ , I suppose.”  
  
“I used to invoke your name on dares,” she admits, sounding distant. “I used to… tell the others in camp that if I really was as horrible and unruly as they thought I was, the big scary Fen’harel would punish me. I didn’t think you’d make good on that.”  
  
He feels sick. “And now you know,” he says. Shame wells up in him.  
  
She stands there for another moment, until her head lolls down, and the tears come faster. “You _lied_ ,” she hisses, a vicious accusation. “You lied to me, to everyone—you were lying from the start.”  
  
“Only by omission,” he says, not knowing why he’s attempting justification. He does not need to. He doesn’t _owe_ anyone anything. “I could not tell you.”  
  
“Spare me the semantics and bullshit,” Nehn growls. “You didn’t _want_ to, and so you didn’t. You didn’t trust me. You _didn’t_.”  
  
The hurt in her voice strikes the words from his lips. He turns away, awkward, suddenly out of depth. It took less effort to act when it was easy to believe he did not matter—not to them, or her.  
  
They continue to talk, somehow, though the tension is stretches far and tight every time he mentions what he must do.  
  
He recognizes the threatening glint in her eye; she has made up her mind, and nothing and no one will move her from her goal, whatever it is. It’s the same quality that lent itself so well to leadership of the Inquisition, to overriding squabbling councilors, and saving them all. It will be his most difficult obstacle to overcome. He could kill her now—petrify her with a thought, boil her alive in her own blood, banish her—but he cannot.  
  
The conversation circles. She asks questions, hungry for details, and he gives them to her, as best he can. Half-undead as she is, she still lets nothing slip.  
  
“I will save the elven people, even if it means _this_ world must die.”  
  
Earlier on, she would have retaliated—told him that what he was looking to save could not be found in the Fade, but in the forests and alienages across Thedas. His silence has made her cold. She has given up on it, the idea of convincing him, and he’s not sure why that makes him uncomfortable.  
  
“I won’t help you,” she says, shaking her head.  
  
_You cannot stop me_ , Solas of three years ago would have said. “You would not be yourself if you did,” he tells her, smiling sadly.  
  
He has to reach out to steady her when the Mark comes alive again, screaming wildfire in her blood. She cries out, curling in on herself, the sound of her own sizzling skin filling the clearing. He holds on, making sure she won’t fall into the shallow pool at their feet, and doesn’t resist when she folds over like a doll, crumpling to the ground in weariness. They sink together, her forehead pressed to his shoulder, and he notes with muted interest that this is the closest they’ve ever been.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. He has never meant anything more.  
  
“It’s getting worse,” she chokes out. Pain, such pain. And he brought it upon her.  
  
“I know. And we are almost out of time.” He comes nearer, takes her despoiled hand in his, the unnatural chill of magic seeping through his gloves. “The Mark will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you—at least for now.”  
  
She gasps again, arm convulsing. His grip is all that is keeping her stable. “You don’t—have to do what you think you have to. You don’t have to destroy anything, Solas. Not again. I’ll prove it to you.”  
  
He lowers his eyes to hers, tilting her face up with a touch of his fingers to her chin. “I would treasure the chance to be wrong once more.” He will permit himself this last, passing goodbye. Just this, something to take with him. He kisses her brow, feels her freeze, not only because the Mark’s stormy flashing has stopped. Her skin is soft and icy, and after another instant, he pulls back. “Live well, while time remains. We will not meet again, _vhenan_.”  
  
She can’t go after him when he leaves her leaned against one of the flat rocks by the pool, vines rustling at her greaves. She can’t call for him, because there is nothing to say, and because she has the whole truth, a truth that has changed the landscape of them forever. He knows they, her friends, will find her, tend to her—he knows she will rally her forces and devise a way to hinder him. He knows, and he does not mind.  
  
It was that spark that enticed him, after all.  
  
It is because she tries that he loves her.


End file.
